The Long Game
by CuratioLethe
Summary: 'Because its a game, its always been a game and she's not sure she can handle how far he has to go to continue playing." Missed moments between Sherlock and Molly from 'The Reichenbach Fall" through 'His Last Vow.' Rated for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

For as long as she's worked with the dead, tonight's the first time she's ever seen anything that resembled a ghost. He comes to her from across the room, almost completely camouflaged in the black of his coat and hair against the dim light of the room. The rapid pounding of her heart against her ribs is caused by the unexpected way in which he announced himself, but its carried by his words that finally sink through to her brain, registering things like implication and the familiarity of their context.

And then he's coming close, far too close, asking her the most asinine questions, (as if she didn't already know exactly what he was, as if her faith in him could so easily crumble) and he's looking at her in a way that's wrong, because he's Sherlock Holmes, and emotions do not belong on the plains of his face, a face always so stoic that its almost impossible to believe its capable of them.

But its also /right/, this visual display of his feelings, emotions she's almost too sure no one has ever been privvy to see, and oh she can feel just how very /right/ it is that he's looking at her like this. (Although, she's not entirely unsure if this sense of ownership is a result of the many times she's longed for it.)

This moment is so very familiar, like a sense of deja vu, because its the same conversation they've had before, only now she's asking the questions and he's making the statements

Then he's giving his answer, he's telling her what he needs and everything stops. And that one word is wrong and right, burning her from the inside while her finger tips turn to ice.

He's staring down at her with an almost unfathomable look, as if he can't quite believe his own admission, or that the word has broken free

"Molly." Her name was spoken quietly, unrelentingly because it's been seconds and she hasn't yet responded, but she feels as if a response is asking for much. How can she be expected to form a coherent thought, let alone form actual sentences when he's robbed the breath from her with a single word and stolen her ability to communicate.

"You can have me."

The murmured reassurance echoes in more then one way and then he does the impossible; He slides a hand tentatively along her jaw until the tips curve around the base of her skull. She can feel the stiff fabric of his coat along the line of her own as he commands her body back against the door with no more force or speed then he had approached her with.

His gait is a request, despite the rigid command with which he holds himself, and she finds herself complying without being asked. His other hand rests to the left her head and his body has blemished the rest of the room out of site. (Then again, the room's been irrelevant since he had opened his mouth, but that was nothing new) and his size alone, the way in which he has positioned himself in front of her, above her, /around her/ would have been threatening had it been anyone but him.

His shoulders are curved in towards her, his stance giving her nearly as much attention as the uncomfortably piercing stare that he holds her captive with and she forgets what it was like to breathe, if not to breathe him in alone. His is a scent of something spicy; a cologne of genius and darkness; the brief moment between sleep and consciousness when you try desperately to cling onto the images that simply refuse to be caught and slip away. He smells of himself, an enigma that can't be caught and that no one can hold on to-Sherlock Holmes, like sand between fingers and shadows against the sun.

But no one should try, because like butterflies, he is something that is far too beautiful to be caged. If he can't be free, he will wilt and wither and die.

He looks as if he's trying to solve an equation, or make a deduction that's particularly obscure and she wonders if the pounding she hears is just the blood rushing to her ears or if the planet has been ripped away from around them.

She's not sure she would mind the later as much as perhaps she should.

He slowly leans in, his eyes having set her free as they flickered down to what she registers to be the vicinity of her mouth and he's centimeters from where she has only ever imagined he'd make a destination. Its what she's always wanted, something she's only ever dared to dream of, and yet, fear has crawled its way up her chest, lacing itself between the individual vacancies of her ribs like ribbon.

They're sharing the same air; he's breathing in what she's breathing out, but he's no longer moving any closer. Time has suspended around them, creating a dimension that sets apart from reality, complete with its own stratosphere and atmosphere and everything outside of it has ceased to exist.

But its only an illusion she knows, even as he shatters it by pulling back, pulling away from her. Its all an illusion as its always has been and perhaps he realizes just how cruel of magician he's been the entire time. Perhaps that's why he allows his hand to slip from her cheek as he steps back from her and looks away, pulling out a piece of paper from his coat, placing it in her hand and swiftly dismissing himself from the room.

Perhaps its the reason she later realizes why it was fear she felt when he lent in to her, instead of anticipation. Because its a game, its always been a game and she's not sure she can handle how far he has to go to continue playing.


	2. Chapter 2

The key to her apartment slides into the lock smoothly and it unlatches just as so.  
She lets herself into her flat, closing the door behind her and sliding the deadbolt into place as an after thought. Her keys are placed on the table in her foyer, before she reaches down to slip the straps of her shoes from her heels and steps out of them, toeing them off to the side with the intention of coming back for them later. (She can't be bothered with it just now, because her head is pounding and her eyes are raw and she feels wrung out.)

The cat greets her in the door way of the sitting room and she murmurs a greeting as she pulls at the ties of her dress, pulling the garment over her head before its tossed over to the couch. She's left in the white silk slip and the contrast from the black makes her feel as if she's somehow shed a skin, a layer of fabric that she had swathed herself in like a mask. It had worked well enough, she supposes; no one had looked at her twice after all, and Mycroft had relented the smallest of nods in her direction, which she had interpreted as approval of her speech.

She stretches, groaning softly at the faint popping of the joints in her spine and makes her way into the kitchen with a single minded sort of determination, because a cup of tea is exactly the thing she needs right now (she thinks that a book and a blanket wouldn't go unappreciated either.)  
She tries desperately to block out the sound of tears from , the lost look from Lestrade and the quiet grief from John as she begins filling the kettle, tries to ignore the guilt at the situation itself and for denying their invitation to return to 221b Baker Street afterward. It had been hard enough pretending throughout the time that her presence had been required, but she didn't want to push her luck- acting had never been her strong point.

She shuts off the tap and turns to place it on the kettle on the stove when a presence she hadn't noticed before announces itself, causing her to start sharply enough that water sloshes out of the pot and down the front of her and the floor.

"Sherlock!" She squeaks, slamming the pot onto the counter and placing a hand over her suddenly erratic heart in a hopes of calming it. She closes her eyes and inhales, counting to ten in her head before she has the capacity to speak to him without shouting, and looks up at where he's seated at the island in her kitchen, expecting his trademark smirk of superiority.  
Instead he's simply staring blankly at her, face clean of any indication of his thoughts. His elbows rest on the table with his fingers steeped in the way she's seen him do on many occasions, a sign that he's lost in thought.

She sighs and grabs a towel from the drawer, stooping down to mop up the spill and in doing so, realizes just how very little clothing she currently has on, (how very little clothing this will be that he's ever seen her in) but chooses to ignore the implications despite the rising heat of her cheeks. After all, its not as if he'd even notice something like that anyways. At least, not in the way that she would hope him for to. (The Christmas disaster had been indication enough of that and she winced a little as she recalls the event, before standing with her back towards him, dabbing at the front her slip.

Besides, she finds that she just doesn't have the energy to care one way or another just then. It's the first time that she's seen him since his "death" and she's surprised that he would choose to visit her. She had suspected that he would have left the country by now.

She sets the towel aside and continues to go about the process she had been attempting, placing the kettle on the stove, (her mother had countless times tried to convince her of the electric ones, but she found she enjoyed the quickly becoming antique notion) and set about preparing tea for two.  
The kettle whistles before he's resurfaced and by this time, she's retrieved her dressing gown from her room, unpinned her hair, (which helps to alleviate some of the pressure) and is pouring the steaming water into cups which houses individual tea bags.

"When did you get back?" He ask, his brow furrowing as he takes the mug from her, glancing at his watch.

"About twenty minutes ago. You'll have to settle, I'm afraid. Haven't been around to the shops since...Well." She clears her throat before lifting the mug to sip tentatively and allowing her eyes to follow its descent back to the table. "How long have you been here?"

"Not much longer."

"Oh." Silence fills the space between them and she idly scrapes at a chip in the ceramic, keeping her eyes trained on the lazy drifting tendrils of steam that curl from the liquid into the air before dissipating. But just because she isn't looking, doesn't mean she can't feel him doing so. In fact, he hasn't taken his eyes off of her since she had sat across from him and its causing the most uncomfortable prickling sensations down her back. For someone who can read an entire life story in just a few glances, she's a bit frightened at what is this invested study could be telling him.

"How long will you be staying? I thought you.."

"My flight leaves tomorrow. I won't tell you were it's taking me; the less you know the better. Its safer that way."

"Right." She knows she shouldn't feel as put out by that statement as she does; after all, the sheer amount of trust he's placed in her for even this much, (knowing he's still alive, coming to her for the details necessary to have made it work)- well, she doesn't undermine the weight that those things carry, so she's not sure she can rationalize the heavy feeling that's settled in her chest.

All she knows is that she doesn't want him to go.

"Do you know...how long you'll be gone?" She has to swallowed heavily to get the words out.

"No."

She nods, because she hadn't really been expecting a more definite answer. (Really, why had she even bothered to ask?)

"You...cried."

She's not sure if its the statement alone or the confused way with which he said it, but she looks back at him, surprised "What?"

"At the funeral. My funeral, you cried. Why?"

Of all the things she expected from him, that certainly wasn't it. She tries to summon an answer from her suddenly uncooperative brain and latches on the first thing that surfaces.

"W-Well, I just...it wouldn't have made sense if I hadn't..I mean, everyone knew-" She abruptly cuts herself off, because the conversation has suddenly become unbearably uncomfortable and she doesn't need to contribute to it, before a realization catches her attention.

"Wait.. you were /there/?"

"Of course I was." As if its the most logical thing to do, attend your own funeral while everyone who cares about you is in attendance.

She sighs in exasperation, "Did Mycroft know?"

"You'll come to learn that there isn't much my brother doesn't know about. Whether he approved of my presence or not is an entirely different matter."

She couldn't help but smile a little at that, because it seemed to her from the brief contact she had had with both Holmes brothers simultaneously that this was often the matter at hand. "I wouldn't think so... What if someone caught sight of you though? The whole thing would have been for nothing."

He rolls his eyes and she can practically hear a scoff in the action."Please, Molly. A little more credit than that. I did just fake my own death, certainly going undetected in a room full of people who were so thoroughly distraught couldn't have been nearly as difficult. And speaking of which, that was more than just a show. You know that as well as I do."

She shrugs a shoulder and looks down at her mug again, before she pushes away from the table and goes in search of a distraction, because they're right back to the topic she had no other diversion from.

"I dunno... care for some biscuits?"

She hears the gentle protest of wood against tile as his stool is pushed back and then she can practically feel him come closer. She jumps when his fingers encircle the wrist of the hand she's using to rummaged through the cabinet.

Its not his proximity, but his action that have startled her and his hand is burning her. He pulls it away from the shelf and holds it aloft in front of them and she can feel that he is inches away from her, the miniscule hairs on the skin of her neck have stood to attention at how close he is. She thinks that perhaps if she concentrates, she'll be able to hear his heart beat, to determine if it could possibly be beating as fast as her own.

"Tell me why you /cried/, Molly Hooper." His words come from far too close to her ear, sending a ripple effect down her spine and his breath that ghosts over the shell of her ear is far too warm; she briefly weighs the pros against the cons of pinching herself to determine how real this actually is. The timbre of his voice is low, the deep baritone is almost intoxicating and she idly considers if he's aware enough of the fact to use it to his advantage in claiming the things he desires, because he would certainly succeed in doing so.

"You keep doing things that make no sense to me. When I think I've finally figured you out, you do something that I cannot rationalize. Please indulge me, Molly. I'm dying to know."

Her breath catches, each emphasis he puts into his words is punctuated by a shiver down her spine and she's so confused, because none of /his/ actions make sense and she can't reconcile this person with the Sherlock she knows- As if the dive he took off of Bart's did in fact kill Sherlock Holmes and a stranger has taken up residence in his body, using it like a morbid rendition of puppeteering.  
No matter, because it is his voice who is requesting that she speak and she can never deny him, she's never been able to and she almost afraid that she never will. The things she would do for him, should he ever ask her of them...

"Because... Everyone was so heartbroken, It was easy to forget. The idea is too horrible to think about, and I couldn't ever .." Her throat is swollen and the sting from earlier has returned to her eyes and she's biting her lip because she's going to cry again.

Suddenly, it doesn't matter what he thinks of her, if she's still just some silly girl with a crush or the pathologist whose far too easy to be taken advantage of for services that can be rendered; it doesn't even matter if that's what he's doing now. Right now, the only thing that matters is trying very hard not to cry, trying very hard to convey to him what he's asking without having to actually give the answer.

Everyone knows, he might even know, probably does and that's fine, really, because she's never actually tried to hide it, (she doesn't feel it something to be ashamed of) but the very act of admitting it? Forcing the admission from her own vocal chords? She can't do that, can never do that. The words would then exist outside of her and then it'll no longer be just an idea. No, then it becomes a fact.

Because ideas have far higher hopes of being forgotten then facts do.

His fingers graze the length of her forearm, skin exposed from where the sleeve of her dressing gown has pooled at the crook of her elbow, and the touch causes the nerve endings to explode with sensation. Its the simplest touch, nothing overtly suggestive or intimate; but then again, the fact that its coming from him makes it the most intimate touch she's ever experienced.

"I don't understand you. How can you care so much? I've only ever been horrible to you, and yet here you stand. You should have given up on me by now."

"Maybe I can't."

She hadn't meant to say it, but it didn't ring any less true. Even if she's never actually admitted to it, it's not as if she's never tried to. She's always known that she could never amount more to him than what she could give him and she certainly values herself far above being knowingly used in such a way.

And yet she's been so smitten with him from the very beginning that no manner of harsh words, no amount of manipulation have hurt /enough/ to drive her away. She fears her own words as truth, that perhaps she honestly, genuinely can't. That perhaps she'll be tied to him like this forever, trapped in a sort of purgatory with no chance of escape.

"You should try."

She wants to laugh. She nearly does and wonders how he'd react to that. "I have tried.'

"Then perhaps you should try harder. I can't be... I can't give you want you want, Molly."

She stiffens, because even as he speaks, she feels his free hand slip around her side to the flat of her stomach, his fingers splaying across the fabric and he gently pulls her back against himself, so that she's flushed against the curve of his body.

She has no idea what he's doing or why he's doing it, but she knows its dangerous, this way that he's holding her. Its a prepice that she will never recover from if she falls over, and she knows that he knows.

Certainly, even he cannot be so cruel.  
Its been a long game, but it would seem that he's no longer playing by the rules.

"What I want doesn't matter." She swallows, and realizes that she hates how very small those words make her feel and how very true she actually believes them to be.

He stills at her words and she can feel his body against her own, suddenly unrelentingly rigid where it had been compliant just a moment before. And then the hand with which he held her wrist releases it, moving to brush the curtain of her hair from one of her shoulders to the other, while at the same time his other hand tugs the part of her dressing gown loose, pulling it away from her left shoulder which is bare of all except the strap of her slip.

"Every time you say things like that, I have the most inexplicable, unexplainable urge to prove to you how very wrong you are." She shivers because the air is suddenly chillier than she remembers it being, and her skin prickles.

She then inhales sharply, a sudden sharp intake of breath because his mouth is now on her skin, lips warm against the juncture of her neck.

He doesn't move at first, simply rest his mouth against her skin and it occurs to her that he's waiting for permission.  
Oh, she's not sure what he's doing or why he's doing it and she's not sure if she'll survive the fall of her own from the tipping point, but it suddenly occurs to her why those who aren't addicts become them. Because they know it could kill them and they know of the danger, yet the promises of bliss (though it be fleeting,)is too tempting to ignore. Its all consuming, and as she tilts her head tentatively to the side in an unspoken agreement, somewhere in the back of her mind, she equates it to sliding a needle into her vein.

It appears she hasn't been mistaken- His lips have started their ascent towards the space behind her ear and the contact, simple though it may be, is overwhelming.

The journey back to the curve of her shoulder is far worse and a sound that belongs solely to her this time escapes her lips. Its soft, almost inaudible, but he hears it and whether this was his intention or not, she'll never know, but both of his arms slide into place around her waist and with his head bent the way that it is, she realizes that he's cradling her.

His body is all strength, and yet he's so very careful with her. It's startling, because she's never reconciled the notion of gentleness with him, (its certainly never something she's expected from him) and yet he's holding her with the care required to that of a fine porcelain. As if he squeezes too hard, she'll break.

She wonders how he knew that's exactly what she fears. But oh, it would be a glorious way to shatter. His lips leave her skin momentarily, long enough to brush along the curve of the shell of her ear and it's unbearably sweet the way that he whispers, "I've been far to efficient in destroying the value you place in yourself. No one should have that right or ability."

There are so many things she can hear underlying those words, things she thinks he means to say, wants to say, but she's not sure even she would know how.  
Or maybe it's all wishful thinking on her part.

"Find someone, Molly Hooper. Find someone who will give you everything that I can't."

"I don't want-"

But then his arms are gone; he's gone and the sudden emptiness at her spine is too abrupt not to choke on her words. She barely registers the faint blush of a kiss against her cheek in the dull shock of his withdrawal.  
She catches herself on the counter, her legs deciding they no longer need to support her body and she's not sure the sound that suddenly fills her ears is because of the strange wrenching sensation that tears itself from her throat or the resounding finality of goodbye in his words.

What she does know is that she'll never again be able to disassociate a kiss on the cheek from an apology.

And she hates it.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Buzz, Buzz/**_

She mumbles as rolls over to see that her mobile is glowing, the only source of light in her otherwise darkened bedroom and had she been fully asleep, she wouldn't have heard it, (she had forgotten to taken it off of silent.)

She reaches for it, glancing at the illuminated numbers of her alarm clock and blinks blearily at the late hour. She hasn't received a call this late since Sherlock had needed to examine the body of the woman whose face had been smashed in and she thinks as she sees his name on the caller ID that a conversation about boundaries and ideal times should probably be something she gets around to having with him.

"Hello?"

"Molly."

There's something about the way her name rolls through her end of the call, as if he's exhaled it in a breath.

"Sherlock?"

"I apologize for the lateness of the hour, however if I might beg an audience with you?"

She's suddenly very much awake and she sits up. Because Sherlock is being polite, something of a foreign concept for him and the memories of the last time she saw him are suddenly too bright against the backdrop of her eye lids. Her palm feels too warm and the glaze over the blue of his eyes is too sharp in her memory.

They've moved past the notion that he has to manipulate her for her help, of that she's certain. So whereas before she would questioned his motives for the pleasantries, now it only has her worried.

"What's wrong?" Her voice is terse, and if she can hear the stress in it, then she knows that he can as well. Therefore his soft chuckle is the last thing she expects.

"Nothing. In manner of speaking, May I come over?"

"Of course."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

The line goes dead and she has just enough time to pull on her dressing gown over her pajamas, a tank top and sleep shorts, before he's true to his word, knocking at the ten minutes exactly.

When she opens the door to him, he enters her flat wordlessly and she follows as he heads into the sitting room, his back towards her. He's silent as he moves over to the window, his towering figure as graceful as its always been, but she thinks as she hugs her arms around herself that perhaps she can read a sort of tension in the set of his shoulders.

She doesn't speak, because he hasn't spoken and she knows that he'll speak when he's ready to. He has a purpose for being here, (because Sherlock doesn't do things without having a reason to) and she knows that he'll act in his own time.

She waits and watches him, reveling in the freedom to do so. This certainly isn't the first time, but where as before she would do so furtively, quick glances and telltale blushes, she now does so unreservedly and without shame. It is testament, she thinks, to the ways in which she's grown. Or even that of the way in which their relationship has matured past that of detective and pathologist. From the Great Sherlock Holmes and mousey Dr. Hooper.

Now, they're simply Sherlock and Molly.

Now, they're friends and she's more than earned the right to look upon him without embarrassment.

Even if her feelings for him haven't changed after all this time, their circumstances certainly have.

And she's strangely okay with the exchange.

Tom was… Well, she's not exactly sure what Tom had been.

She had never had to question things with Tom, she just simply had to go along with them and it had been a blessed distinction at the time from her previous circumstances. She never had to second guess, or question herself or her actions. Things with Tom were simple, cut and paste. She never worried about his intentions or his sincerity, and she was certain that he did in fact care about her.

She would have been content, she thinks, had she chosen to follow him into the life he had offered her.

Tom had been easy, uncomplicated and safe. He was kind, dependable and although he had his times of being a bit… thick, he wasn't unintelligent. He was the type of man her father would have wanted for her, she thinks. Someone to care for and love her unreservedly, someone who could provide for and be there for her. He had been ideal choice for a life partner.

But he was too safe, too uncomplicated and it taken Sherlock's presence back into her life all of twenty four hours to question it. Just one day to realize what Tom would not and had not and could not be for her.

A life with him would have been uncomplicated but it would have been dull.

He would have made her content, but she would never have been /happy/.

Above all, above everything that Tom had been for Molly, there was one thing he never could have been.

The one thing that it had only taken a single day for her to realize she needed above all else, above all of the contentment and security and certainty.

And that was Sherlock Holmes.

For all of the commitment Tom had offered her, a lifetime of it, she had come to realize that the uneven ground with which she now stood with Sherlock would always mean more.

He turns from the window then and the action shakes her from her thoughts. What greets her both comforts and frightens her.

The comfort she takes in all of his usual mannerisms-The collar of his Belstaff turned up, scarf knotted in his usual manner and hands clasps behind his back. All markers to indicate that he's in good physcial standing and that his health isn't something to be concerned about.

The fear comes from the look on his face. Its not overtly expressive, and perhaps if she hadn't come to know this man as well as she had she might not have even noticed. But the thing about it was that she /did/ know him and she /saw/ him and right now his expression belied so many things.

It bore a resemblance to that of the expression he had worn the night he had sought her out in the morgue. Then, she had seen a ghost.

Now, he only looked haunted.

It was an expression that she wanted to wipe away and bury; pretend that he was incapable of feeling something that could result in such an expression.

Because the idea that he could feel like that hurt her somewhere deep in her gut.

For the first time since she has known this man, of the many times he had ignorantly insulted her, hurt her with words and actions, and made her question whether he was even human, tonight's the first time she's ever wished that he was anything but.

"Sherlock, what it is?" She tries to ignore the octave her voice pitches from the anxiety she couldn't swallow hard enough, and the fact she she's broken her own rule to let him speak first.

He doesn't answer at first, and the air between them shifts into something else, because he's staring at her in a way he only ever has once before and fear rises like bile at the back of her throat. He stands perfectly still, hands still clasp behind his back and his eyes are locked on to her.

'Sherlock-"

"You'll not hear about it in the news as I'd suspect my brother is doing everything he can to keep it quiet."

He looks away from her then, his eyes flickering away as if by their violation to the spot on the wall that's just above her head and there's a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

"Hear about what?"

He opens his mouth to respond, before closing it again, but his eyes remain on the point away from her.

Sherlock was not a shy man, nor was he ever one to be coy. And yet, it would seem he couldn't even look at her.

Something is very, very wrong.

She considers him for a moment, considers what she was considering before; that surely they've moved into a place where things she would never have considered doing before are now more than acceptable. That they're now /friends/ and surely that counts for something.

She then pushes off of the wall that she had been leaning back against, navigates herself around the coffee table until she is now standing in front of him; her movements must have captured his attention, because he's watching her. She pauses as she considers her next action and he's staring down at her and the air is suddenly hard to take in.

She swallows and lifts a hand and she hopes in vain that he will not notice the slight tremble as she does so, before she reaches up to touch his face, to cup his jaw as he once did to her and she can feel the way that his body tenses at the contact.

She doesn't push things though, simply rest it against his skin which is cool from the night and stares back into the blue-green of his eyes, such captivating eyes and tries to ignore the voice of the silly girl who is so madly in love with him, who crows in joy that he has not pulled away at the contact.

She pushes that silly girl away, stuffs her down into the deepest recesses of her brain, because this isn't about her, (as it never really is) and because something has happened, something that has affected the man before her in such a way that it's causing him to stray from character. The man who does not feel, who has discarded emotions and sentiment, is dealing with something that has left an impact enough to render him speechless.

Because he has come to her, which means he needs something from her, and she needs to be his friend right now.

(She almost expected him to flinch, she realizes)

"What ever it is, whatever happened, we'll get through it, okay? Tell me what you need."

Suddenly, she's the one that can't bring herself to look at him and her eyes drift to the vicinity of his chest; it feels as if that statement has been branded into her vocal chords. The last time she spoke it she hadn't fully understood what she had been saying, hadn't /really/ understood the extent that she would have taken those words.

But she understood now.

She had done what he had asked her to do all that time ago, or at the very least, she had tried to. Had tried to find someone to give her everything she had ever wanted and she had almost married him.

But what she wanted and what she /needed/ were separate things.

She would always need Sherlock, even if he could never need her in the same way.

"I killed someone."

The statement does something strange to her, something that tugs a memory free; the time when she was a child and stuck her finger in a light socket. It had been painful, she had jerked her hand away and the electric shock had moved through her body, concentrating on her heart for a moment, causing it to skip a beat. The sensation was frightening and sickening at the same time, resulting in a terrible headache that had lasted for hours.

His words cause a very similar reaction, only instead of the headache, a numbing sense of disbelief rises like a cloud to blink out all other thoughts. Her hand falls away, her arm suddenly boneless and she blinks up at him, because she can't quite register his words.

What she does register is the hard expression that has encased his features as he speaks. He's more guarded than she's ever seen him before, and it shouldn't be such a change from his usual lack of expression but some how it is and she dimly wonders in her shell-shocked state why this is any different.

His eyes are trained on her, his mouth a hard, flat line and he reaches a hand up to mimic her actions of cupping her cheek. "I pulled out a gun, aimed it at a man who was completely unarmed and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit with perfect accuracy, right here," He strokes a finger over the most center spot of her forehead, "it cut through skin and bone, where it lodged itself into his brain. He fell back with the force of it and died almost instantly on his own front porch. That was three days ago."

The things he's saying are horrible, but she's not sure why he's telling her them. She cannot understand why he's even here in the first place, why he chose to pay her a visit so late to tell her this.

But when he speaks again, its like light had been turned on: the pieces fall into place and she understands.

"Tell me, Molly, can you still bring yourself care about what I need?"

He looks different, because its not that just he's not feeling emotions which would result in them not showing; He looks different because he's trying to hide them.

She steels herself then, shaking herself out of her stupor that had been slowly twisting itself into horror, and she pulls herself as tall as she can muster. The attempt is ridiculous compared to his stature.

"Yes."

His nostrils flare, his eyes widen and his hand drops to grasp her throat. She gasp at the unexpected move; his grip is tight and uncomfortable but not painful and its only a kneejerk reaction to grab at his wrist. He's holding her like this, his grip is unforgiving and her moment of astute clarity is swallowed by a sudden flash of fear.

"What about now, Molly? Do you care what I need now? I could murder you tonight, right here in your own apartment and no one would find your body for days."

Her breathing is suddenly ragged, and she can feel the scrape of each exhale against the pressure of his fingers around her neck. Because she knows he's telling the truth.

She's afraid, there's no way to deny that, as any normal person would be; she's alone with him, its late and he could squeeze the breath from her until she stopped. There would be no way for her to fight him off.

Yes, she's afraid, her sense of self preservation doesn't give her a choice in the matter; but despite that, she realizes she trust him.

She's always trusted him, just as he told her that he's always trusted her and despite the choking fear, she forces herself to let go of his wrist, forces herself to relax as she tries to take in as much air as he'll allow her to and she winces at the pressure, (She'll have bruises, no doubt.)

"Y-yes." She answers without hesitation and his brow furrows. There's a beat of silence, before he /snarls/ (its the only word that comes to mind at the sound) and suddenly, he's wild, his eyes are twin flames and he's turns, dragging her along with him as he commands her body up against a wall by the grip his has on her throat. She cries out at the way he shoves her, at the pain that laces up her spine at the impact and it seems to be exactly the response he's waiting for. His face has convoluted into something she doesn't recognize, a person she doesn't know and she's almost captivated by the angry, savageness of one whose always so composed.

"And now? Do you still care about me, Molly?"

Its a whisper this time, and out of everything that's happened so far, this seems to be the most dangerous.

Two years ago, she would have been in tears by now and although she can feel them burning the back of her throat and although this is a side of Sherlock she's never seen before, she's not the same person she used to be. She won't cry and she won't back down.

If there's anything about the time that she's been apart of the consulting detectives life that she's learned about herself, its that she has to stand up for herself. And not only that she has to, but that she /can/.

"Always."

A moment passes between them before anything happens. Time seems to stand still and she wonders what he's going to do next. What she'll allow him to do next. Because she's asked him what he needed and she's made peace with the fact that she'll give it to him, no matter the cost.

He begins to crack like glass, and she watches as piece by piece he's the one to break. His expression slowly changes. The last few moments she's been faced with someone she did not recognize , someone she didn't know and feared. But Sherlock was slowly resurfacing, as inch by inch the mask of rage and /loathing/ slips away and his grasp on her neck slowly loosens.

"You shouldn't. You should be disgusted with me right now. Not only have I just manhandled you in a way no should ever be allowed to, but I've just admitted to you that I've taken someones life, someone who was defenseless."

His fingers skim the side of neck and she winces at the contact, the area is sore and she can only imagine what its going to look like in the morning. His eyes are riveted on her neck and his fingers are trailing lazily over the tender flesh in a way that would have been intimate if it were not so apologetic.

"D-defenseless doesn't equate innocence." She murmurs as she watches him, watches his eyes flicker across her skin before his gaze jumps to her face and he looks genuinely surprised for three seconds, before a rueful grin tugs at the corner of his lips.

"I keep underestimating you."

And then those lips are on her own, and the world tilts on its axis.


	4. Chapter 4

(A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed so far! All of your comments have just been the highlight of my life lately! Feedback is so important to a writer and I just want you all to know how much every one of your reviews meant to me! Sorry I haven't had time to individually respond to them!  
On another note: This chapter contains some M/NSFW material. Reader discretion advised.  
And one more note, this story WILL have a sequel, entitled 'Silhouettes'.  
And I'm done talking, enjoy the last chapter of TLG!)

And then those lips are on her own, and the world tilts on its axis.

Later she would wonder if that was from the kiss itself or from the oxygen deprivation, but right now the only thing she could even begin to comprehend is sensation. His lips are soft, the curve of his mouth fitting almost perfectly to her own and the touch does something rather funny to her brain. Tiny shocks of pleasure wrack her nervous system and she forgets that the planet is beneath her feet.

But above all, the contrast of how roughly he had just handled her and the gentle pressure of his mouth against hers is almost alarming to her sensory system.

His hand hasn't left her throat, but his free hand is suddenly at her hip. He pulls her away from the wall, slips his arm around her waist and she can't help but inhale sharply at the trill of pleasure that the sudden full body contact entices within her. Her intake of breath has caused her lips to part, and in effect, Sherlock has taken the opportunity to slip his tongue just past her bottom lip, with a request-that's-more-of-a-command that is so /Sherlock/ in nature that she has no choice but to comply; her tongue slips from her own mouth to meet his.

And it's absolutely magical; he tastes of so many things: of cigarettes and bitter tea, of spice and the mysteries of the universe. Discovery and elegance. Like books and velvet. It's a flavor unlike anything she's ever tasted and the only thing she can compare it to in its entirety is that it's simply Sherlock.

Suddenly, his arm around her waist is the only thing keeping her upright, because her legs have ceased to function and she's grasped at his coat; clutching at the fabric as if she depended on it, pulling him closer.

His mouth on hers is slow at first; experimental and testing, tasting her like she's tasting him. His hand on her throat has slid to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair at the base of her skull and it gives him better leverage to deepen the kiss.

Lifetimes fly by in the span of moments and as they test one another, things begin to deepen; she can feel his body respond to hers in a way that hers has long since reacted and when his mouth moves from exploring to demanding, she can't keep herself from complying. Her hands have found their way into his hair and the feel of glossy curls that glide between her fingers is made all the more satisfying in the fulfillment of a desire that's resided inside of her since day one.

There's a burning in her chest and she breaks away, gasping for air, against everything that wants very much to keep her there,. Her eyes are closed and she's almost afraid at what she'll find if she opens them. Her chest is heaving against his, and she's not sure if the pounding she feels is her own heart or his.

He presses his forehead into her temple, and the erratic movement of his chest proof enough he wasn't unaffected; his lips are grazing the line of her cheek, tiny puffs of breath mingling with the sensation.

She curls her fingers gently against his scalp, her nails just barely grazing the skin, and she's shaken from the stunned stupor that the kiss has left her in by the softest of groans that escape him. She pulls her head back and looks up at him, to find that he's already watching her.

The silence between them could have taken on a life of its own with the way that its presence dominates the moment; her fingers slip from his hair and she's suddenly very much aware of the way in which his arm is curled around her body.

As if he could read her thoughts by the proximity of their bodies alone, his hand drops from her waist and he takes a step back.

The step feels as if its more like bounds, like the act has taken years rather than a second; because as he steps away, any semblance of expression is drained away in the blink of an eye.

Her own arms are suddenly too empty and they fall to her sides as if weighed with lead.

They're now mirroring each others position from just minutes before, only now her back is to the window and his is to the door; his hands behind his back again.

"Why did you come here tonight?"

There's nothing that's he's asked from her tonight, and even if this were simply his continued method of obtaining what he needed, he's never taken things this far before.

She's rather proud of the fact that her voice has remained steady through each word, but her hands are not so fortunate and she decides to tuck them to her sides as she crosses her arms in front of her as she had before.

Then, it had been an unconscious act, but now it feels more like armor of her own; the only thing between the two of them.

He inhales deeply, as his eyes drift upwards and he's studying the ceiling as he speaks."As an ultimatum to prison for my crime, Mycroft has landed me an assignment in the Middle East."

"You're leaving again?" The words depart her lips in a whisper, "How long...?"

She thinks back to all of the nights that she's laid awake during the two years of his "death", wondering and distraught with worry. Was he alright? Was he safe? Was he even really still alive, or had she imagined the whole thing?

Even after she had met Tom it hadn't really stopped, but it had been easier to distract herself. And when she had caught sight of him in the mirror for the first time in two years, her heart had practically broken in relief

She couldn't do that again, couldn't spend two years worried about him like that. And even worse, she wasn't sure she could go without his presence in her life in the consistent manner he had begun since his return.

He looks at her then, and he's smiling.

Its the same smile that he graced her with the day he invited her along to solve crimes. Its the same smile that makes her insides hurt, because it's beautiful and it's sad and above all, its genuine.

"I've never felt it necessary to keep the unpleasant details from you, Molly; you're far too strong for all of that. Especially during the times when I've needed you to be so the most.'

And then the smile slips from his face. "Simply put; this will be the last time you and I will ever see each other. I came here tonight to say goodbye."

She's rendered speechless, but even so her lips part several times before closing, because no words will form. Her thoughts have been wiped clean of any coherency and all she can do is stare at him.

Because that's not right.

Because that's not /fair/.

Denial spirals through her like a funnel cloud, destroying things like vital organs and bones, crushing them like tissue paper and obliterating them into nothing somewhere in the vicinity of her chest until she feels more like a shell of skin than a person.

He's watching her and she wonders if he can see the way she's suddenly been hollowed out.

Her vocal chords protest, but she forces the word, trying to pretend it doesn't sound as feeble as it actually is. "W-When..?"

"Tomorrow morning."

She nods almost absentmindly, because what else can she do?

All of the things she's always wanted to tell him.

All of the ways she's always wanted to show him how she felt.

Everything she's always wanted to be to him and for him.

Every opportunity gone, snatched away in the blink of an eye.

Time has run out and everything is lost.

And it's not fair.

But perhaps... perhaps not /everything/. Perhaps she still has time for one more thing.

It's a ridiculous thought, insane. The idea that he would even allow for it is ludicrous, to say the least.

Because he's Sherlock and she's Molly, and maybe the gap is still bigger than she originally thought. But suddenly, she can't bring herself to care. The worst he could do is reject her, and they've been there before. The worst he can do is insult her, leave; and let's face it- that's nothing new.

But he's leaving, and does it matter what he'll think of her in the morning? If they never see each other again, does it really matter what his final opinion of her really is? Because he's seen the best of her, so perhaps in the final hours it wouldn't matter that he saw the worst.

Doubts and insecurities rise within her, but she shoves them away.

She's not sure what she means to him, but she knows that she has to mean something.

He came to her and lost control of himself, of his emotions- in front of her.  
The man who wore Armani like pliable armor, who never let anyone close enough to see how unbearably sad he was; had come to her and broken himself open.

And he had kissed her.

His impeccable composure had been fractured during their exchange and he's allowed her to bare witness to it, to be touched by it. He had been something /Other/ during the brief moments that he had let go of himself; and while it was clear that the reason for the lapse in control resulted from his confession, once again he had come to /her/. Out of everyone in his life whom he could have chosen instead, he had chosen /her/.

And that knowledge is suddenly something powerful and precious; it seeps through her body, soaking her bones and muscles in the depth of its implications. Right in this moment, she's no longer the silly little pathologist; right now, she's not even the woman whose hopelessly, and tragically, in love with him

Right then, she becomes someone else entirely; some one strong, empowered and comfortable in every inch of her skin. She has to be, because if she's not, she will cry and she can't allow that. Not while he's still here; there will be plenty of time for that later.

She's graceful and strong; determination surging through her, infusing every fiber of her being and she can feel her posture shift to accommodate the change. And she can see it in the way that his eyes sweep over her that he can see it as well.

He's close enough to touch, and so she does. She reaches out to grab his scarf, and she's not sure if she pulls him or herself closer, but their lips reconnect. Where it had started out tentatively before, there's nothing but need now. She wants to imagine that its from both of them, and that he's possibly as desperate as she is, and maybe she might have even allowed herself to believe it in the past. But Molly Hooper has done a lot of growing up in the past year and she no longer believes in fairy tales.

His hands are at her waist now and she lets go; lets go of everything she's been holding back from him all of this time. All of the love and longing, all of the pain and heartbreak and worry, every flutter of a heartbeat at his faux flattering words, every sting of his insults, and now she has something new to add to the mix. Something so foreign to her, something that's bursting inside of her and at war with everything else she's always felt for him.

She's /angry./

Her fingers grasp at the knot of his scarf until its loose and she pulls it away, tossing it away from them thoughtlessly. Her hands then move to the buttons of his coat and somewhere in the haze of tongue and bruising kisses and hands that are skimming her back and sides, she forms the vague notion of being surprised that he hasn't shoved her away.

But she ignores it, because there are too many things, too many implications and thoughts behind that one and right now she can't handle them. She doesn't want to think about the why and she doesn't want to think of the when that's suddenly looming over them both. Nor of consequences or privilege. She just wants to get lost inside of that wonderful mouth of his, the mouth that had always been so quick to inflict so much damage. And now its her turn; because her kisses are unforgiving and she's sure she's bitten him three times already.

She doesn't question why he's allowed her too. All she'll allow herself to think about is that her dressing gown is no longer apart of the equation and his coat is gone. And that this standing thing is no longer an option. She pulls away, grabs his hand, and allowing their fingers to intertwine as she does,pulls him with her as she back into her bedroom. He's silent, his lips swollen, eyes alight with a strange fire that's so out of place for him, but no less mesmerizing and the moment his eyes land on the bed behind her, understanding slides into places like the remaining pieces fitting into the puzzle.

He doesn't question her actions, nor does he turn tail and leave, both of which she fully expects of him. Because she knows she's pushed further then she has any right to expect him to be okay with.  
What she doesn't expect him to do, but what she's never been more fiercely glad for, is the same moment she witnesses him come to the decision. Because its the same moment that he advances on her.

He's suddenly in control of the situation in much the same he always has been and for it, she's grateful. Because she doesn't have the energy nor the emotional capacity any longer to be the one in control.

His mouth is on her own again and he's kissing her in such a way that she's not even aware they've moved until he suddenly lowers her onto the bed. Her fingers grasp at the material of his ridiculously expensive shirt as his body moves to cover hers and she's fumbling with the buttons, wanting nothing more than to not only feel his bare skin against hers, but to expose him in one of the most vulnerable ways a person can be.

Everything is a whirlwind and somehow in the midst, the kiss has been broken for breath and his mouth has claimed her throat. Her body feels as if it should be glowing in much the same way that radiation glows, because every grasp of his hand alters the part its touched, as if the touch itself seeps inside of her, and she never wants it to stop.

She feels feverish, her cheeks too warm and her vest has joined his shirt somewhere; she can feel the length of him pressed into the cradle of her thighs, in much the same way that her breast and belly are pressed into the warm, hard planes of his chest and everything in her /burns/ for him.

His hands are everywhere and she's dizzy with everything that she's only ever dared to dream of. Every sensation is intoxicating and she can't keep a gasp of unadulterated need from escaping her.

The sound stills him above her and he pulls back just enough to stare down at her. She can't understand the sudden loss of contact from him until he speaks.

"Make me stop, Molly."

She feels a wave of defiance well up inside of her to mingle with the zestpool of emotions, of which are too bright and too much to deal with just then and she suddenly has the urge repeat her actions from from the results of the drug test. This was something she wouldn't trade for the world, not this very moment.

"Absolutely not."

"/Molly/." He growls, and she catches a glimpse of the person from before; the one whom she had never seen before, and she knows that's its his intention to frighten her. "Tell me to stop."

"Shut up."

* * *

The first time that he slides inside of her, its as if she's suddenly taken a breath for the first time in her life. The noise that echoes off of the walls can't be distinguished between them, and the way in which he holds himself above her, hands planted on the mattress on either side of her head as he holds himself above her has snapped something into bright clarity inside of her.

Molly had no disillusions when she pulled him with her, or even when she was the one to pull him into the kiss. She knew that even if he allowed things to come to this, it would not be because he loved her.

Because he's Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock Holmes doesn't commit, he doesn't have relationships, and he doesn't love.

He doesn't love her, nor will he begin to. They've come so very, very far, but everyone had they're limit and she knew, knows better than to expect anything.

But even so, as he begins to move inside of her, his body almost awkward in the way that it does so, as if he's not quite sure exactly how to do so properly; in the back of her mind, she's screaming profanities and raging at him and there's a small part of her, in this moment that she realizes she hates him with.

Hates him, because of every time he's ever pushed her away.

Hates him for every time he's ever used her.

Hates him, because he's taken himself out of her life, and this time, there's no going back.

Hates him because she'll never see him again.

And because she's loves him /too/ much.

Suddenly everythings too much; she needs him to move faster, needs the pace to be as unrelenting and unforgiving as the kisses had been earlier and she slips her arms around his neck, pulls his body down to cover her own as she slides one leg around his waist and uses the other to give herself leverage before she begins to set the pace beneath them. A strangled noise escapes him against her neck at where he's buried his face at the change in pace, but he catches on soon enough, and she's quickly lost in the way that their bodies have joined, in the roll of hips. Soon, its easy to push everything away and allow herself to become lost in the bliss that slowly building inside of her. Lost in the last chance she'll ever have at this.

Sweat slick skin, cries, moans and gasps fill the room like their own personal symphony as places are touched, as their movements become frantic and she's building up in a way that she never has before. A way that's she's only ever been able to achieve while fingers stroke her between the thrust of bodies.

And then she's coming undone, her nails finding purchase in the grasp she has of his shoulder as she cries out; and he's following her in a progression of warmth that explodes deep inside of her, his own voice joining hers in an oddly strangled cry.

He collapses on top of her, and they lay intertwined in each other for a time that's too long to measure without the use of a clock, each trying to come to terms with their breathing and the things that have just taken place between them.

* * *

He leaves in the quiet rustle of clothing in the earliest hours of the morning, just as the rising of the sun has begun to slowly bleach the blackness of the sky into the barest hints of pearlescent gray.

She must have drifted off at some point, although she has no way of telling for how long, because the next thing she's aware of is that she's now lying on her stomach, a sheet tucked around in attempt at modesty, facing the window.

She doesn't speak, but she listens as she hears his movements while he dresses.

And when there's a brief pause, an absolute silence amongst her own breathing which she's managed to maintain, she almost expects him to speak, to announce that he's aware of the fact that she's awake.

But,he doesn't.

The very least she expects is a goodbye.

Instead, the softest of /clicks/ is all that's given and she remains absolutely still until she's sure that he's left, before she finally curls in on herself.

The sob that breaks from her throat hurts in so many ways and she pulls the pillow from under her head closer so that she can bury her face into it. Because this is the one and only time she promises herself to allow for tears.  
Sherlock was right; she /was/ strong; but she was still human.  
A silly human being who fell in love with a man who didn't know how to be.

* * *

It's four weeks later that she comes down with a mild stomach bug and takes the week off of work. And when she's still throwing up three days later, she makes an appointment with her primary care physician.

The results of her exam should not be as much of a shock to her as they are, but she'll later excuse herself for not connecting the dots sooner; after all, the Moriarty thing had been shocking(frightening) enough to drive everything else from her mind.

But as she sits numbly in the back of a cab, staring down at the paper in her hands, something occurs to her.

Its been a long game, and she's never been a willing participant, has never actually /wanted/ to play, and has even considered herself to be a victim of its rules. But perhaps the words on that sheet of paper make her the winner after all.

'_/These are the official results of a pregnancy test administered to the patient- MOLLY HOOPER with the results of the test being POSITIVE. Patient is estimated to be four weeks pregnant as of FEBUARY 7th . Please schedule a follow up appointment with your current OBGYN for further prenatal care./'_


End file.
